As Jack ‘jogged’ through the city, he considered ways to earn gold fast. If everything went like his first life, he’d be working with his father as a Novice Scribe in a couple of weeks.

  The pay for a novice wasn’t great, just 25 silvers a week, meaning it would take months to save enough to afford a bow. I need a bow. If only I could tell the Royal Library I’m already an Apprentice Scribe. Apprentice Scribes earned at least 1 gold a week, so with that pay, a bow would be within reach in no time compared to the meagre wages of a novice.

  As he neared home, Jack slowed his pace; he couldn’t let his mother see him out of breath. “What can I do to earn some coin?” he muttered to himself.

  Jack opened the door to his home and had an epiphany. He almost slapped himself in the head for being so dumb. Why am I trying to reinvent the wheel? he mused. I’m already an Apprentice Scribe; I can make spell scrolls and sell them for good coin. He had spent over fifteen years surviving almost exclusively on the profits from selling spell scrolls.

  The welcoming aroma of his mother’s cooking pulled him inside. “Hey, Mom,” he called out, stepping into the warm embrace of his home.

  His mom looked him over as he entered the kitchen. “Why do you look so sweaty? Are you coming down with something?” she asked, reaching out to check his forehead. “Hmm… You do feel a little warm.” With that, she moved towards her herb supplies, leaving Jack both amused and reassured by her concerned manner.

  “I’m fine. I walked a little fast and became hot, that’s all.” Jack needed to work on his lies.

  His mother ignored him while adding something to a bowl of soup. “Eat this. We need to keep you healthy and strong.” She handed him the bowl, which had a slight medicinal smell. “You know, your second uncle Elijah, twice removed, came down with a fever and died the following week.” She shook her head. “If only he hadn’t ignored the warning signs,” she muttered to herself. “If you start seeing colourful spots floating before your eyes, tell me immediately.” She pointed the wooden spoon she’d used to stir the soup at him.

  He took the soup and nodded before sitting at the table.

  “I mean it, Jack.” She leaned over the table to look into his eyes. “Any spots. Promise you’ll let me know.”

  Jack smiled. “I promise, Mom…” He tried to change the subject. “Where’s Polly?”

  “She’s gone to meet some friends,” his mom explained as she returned to stirring a bubbling stew. “She won’t be home for at least a few hours.” Turning back to face him with an exasperated look in her eye, she continued, “That reminds me. That annoying sister of yours will be doing the washing for a month as punishment. I can’t believe she thought drenching you would be ‘funny’. Well, I can tell you ‘Little Miss Laugh Out Loud’ ain’t laughing now. She’ll be elbow-deep, scrubbing stained gussets and your brother’s dirty nappies until the next full moon.”

  Jack laughed as one of his previous life events repeated itself. I’ll have to find some spider egg sacs over the weekend. Those spiders resulted in so many good memories.

  His mom noticed the expression on his face as he remembered his sister running from her room, screaming because she’d found a few spiders in her hair. She narrowed her eyes at her son and ordered, “You’re the older brother. You will show some maturity and not respond.”

  “Of course, Mom,” he said. “I’m a responsible adult now; the punishment you gave her seems fair and appropriate.” He looked down at his soup and smirked. There was no way he wasn’t going to reciprocate. The game is on.

  “Hmm.” His mother went back to cooking.

  As Jack consumed the bitter soup, his thoughts shifted to selling spell scrolls. In his first life, he’d created spell scrolls for a small group of elven mages he’d met in a tavern. It was a simple agreement. For each ice or fire spell scroll he produced, he’d be paid 2 silvers. The mages would then imbue the inactive scrolls with ice or fire magic and sell them for 6 silvers each.

  Combat spell scrolls were popular emergency consumables, delivering rapid bursts of magic in those moments when Thanatos, the God of Death, fixed his gaze upon an adventurer. Each low-level spell scroll was strong enough to kill a goblin. Still, their high cost made them impractical for everyday use. Spending 6 silvers on a consumable to dispatch a goblin, for which the Guild would pay only 3, wasn’t cost-effective.

  Goblins were a relentless plague on the Kingdom. They bred like vermin, and if not regularly culled, they’d form hordes which would raid farms and caravans. The Adventurers Guild had a standing quest offering 3 silvers for the right ear of each goblin. Many new adventuring parties honed their skills with these low-level tasks before progressing to more lucrative challenges like dungeon runs.

  Jack had everything he needed in his room to create dozens of unimbued scrolls. Who can I sell them to? In his spare time, he could produce several a day, but he lacked a trustworthy buyer. I can’t be seen selling scrolls that can only be made by Apprentice Scribes.

  The Inscribe Spell skill became available at level 25 when the class upgraded from novice to Apprentice Scribe. There was no way for a sixteen-year-old to have the Inscribe Spell skill.

  The materials to create an unimbued spell scroll cost around 10 coppers each. If he put a couple of hours into creating a couple each night, he’d earn almost 13 silvers profit a week.

  As he finished his soup, he worked out how long it would take to buy a basic bow. I should be able to get a starter bow and arrows for around 50 silvers. I only need to sell a little over a dozen scrolls. For around twenty-five hours of work, he’d earn enough to buy the weapon he needed.

  “Thanks for the soup, Mom.” He gave his mother a hug. “I’m feeling much better already.”

  His mother hugged him back and grunted.

  Jack headed towards his room. “I’m going to practise my new scribe skills.”

  His mom waved him off and went back to cooking.

  Jack sat straight-backed at his desk, intent on crafting an ice-magic spell scroll. Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up his scribe pen and appreciated its balanced weight and fine craftsmanship.

  “I’m so glad I was resurrected with my scribe skills,” he murmured, taking a deep breath of the ink’s familiar aroma. A satisfied smile crossed his face as he added, “I’d have been so miserable with only the archer class.”

  Placing his pen to the scroll, Jack activated his Inscribe Spell skill. The pen glided over the parchment, crafting elegant calligraphy with every stroke. Each letter seemed to spring to life as he arranged the words on the scroll to form the basis of the frost breath spell.

  I call upon the frozen wastes of Tartarus, in the land where a dragon’s breath freezes all, unleash thy frozen fury. Frost Breath.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  As he was close to completing the first spell scroll, he took a moment to admire the beautiful penmanship, paying particular attention to the intricate runes surrounding the spell text. When empowered, those runes would hold the mage’s magic. They had to be inscribed perfectly, or the spell would fail.

  “This feels so good,” he said. Like before, when using the Draughtsmanship skill, his right hand felt amazing. Tears of joy formed; he wiped them away so they wouldn’t drip onto the ink and ruin his incomplete work.

  Then a realisation hit him, and a deep sorrow welled within as he acknowledged that this perfect moment could’ve been his everyday experience if it weren’t for the Baron. If Greaves hadn’t murdered his family, he might have been happy and content with a fulfilling life.

  “Keep it together,” he told himself, “I’ve got work to do… and the sooner the work is finished, the sooner he pay for what he did.” With a deep, steadying breath, he resumed inscribing the frost breath spell onto the scroll.

  Once complete and imbued with the magic of an Apprentice Mage skilled in Frost Breath, the scroll would be ready to use. A spell scroll was activated by touching the scroll with the intent for it to activate and saying the spell’s name; in this case, ‘Frost Breath’. Spell scrolls had a built-in rune-encoded safety feature to prevent accidental activation.

  For three uninterrupted hours, Jack worked with a joyful intensity as he crafted unimbued spell scrolls. “I can’t believe I’m so fast using Inscribe Spell now,” he murmured, the thrill of his newfound speed compelling him to rush off to tell his mother the good news. In his previous life, he’d never inscribed a spell this fast, and the prospect of sharing his success with his family filled him with pride. I wish I could tell them, he thought.

  During those few hours, he produced four unimbued spell scrolls. Two with the essence of ice magic and two with the fiery spark of fire magic.

  “That should be plenty to test the waters,” he concluded, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

  He took a moment to examine the fireball spell scroll he’d completed. He ran his finger across the beautiful calligraphy and read the words. “By the heart of the ever-roaring forge, I summon blazing wrath, ignite thy soul’s fury! Fireball!”

  Jack had always loved how poetic the spell scrolls were.

  It had taken him only forty-five minutes to craft each scroll. Glancing at his aether-powered wall clock, Jack calculated. At this rate, I’d have enough for a bow and arrows by tomorrow if I push through the night… as long as I can find a buyer. I’ll check if any merch…

  His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the front door open and the unmistakable sounds of his father returning from the Royal Library.

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he heard his father return home from the Royal Library. The last time he saw his dad was when he’d impotently watched Baron Greaves drive a dagger through his father’s heart because he knew of the existence of a blood magic grimoire. At the thought of the Baron killing his father, he clenched his fists in anger, snapping the scribe pen he held.

  “Damn it. That was a nice pen.” He pulled his hands away from the scroll he was working on so as not to drip ink all over it. He discarded the broken pen in the bin and wiped the ink from his hand. “That’s 3 silvers in the bin.” Scribe pens weren’t cheap, but fortunately, it wasn’t his only pen.

  The scratch from the blood-red rose thorn had reopened and itched. Roses were becoming one of his least favourite flowers.

  After cleaning up the mess, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he’d find his father. His dad’s first stop was always the kitchen to greet his wife.

  As he entered the kitchen, he saw his father sitting at the table with a smile on his face. His dad looked a bit younger than he remembered. The neat beard was shorter, and there was less grey hair and fewer laughter lines. Jack smiled back, trying to keep his emotions in check.

  Dad’s alive. He held back his tears. He’s alive and here.

  “I hear we have a new scribe in the family,” his dad said. “Congratulations, Son.”

  Jack’s mother was beaming. “We are both proud of you.” She stood behind her husband.

  Hearing his father’s proud voice was too much for Jack. Tears started to flow as he ran to his dad for a hug. “I-I’ve missed you so much…” He wrapped his arms around his still-sitting and now-shocked father.

  “Calm down, Son,” Jack’s father replied. “No need to be so… emotional.” Like many men, he rarely showed his true feelings.

  His mother gave Jack a hug from behind. “I think it’s all the stress of choosing day. He was upset this morning.” She patted him. “Though he was a little hot earlier…” she muttered while checking his temperature.

  Jack didn’t care what they believed; his parents were alive and hugging him. Well, his mother was embracing him, while his father sat awkwardly as he was hugged. His dad wasn’t much of a hugger. “I’m… I’m a scribe… like… like you.” He managed to say between sobs of happiness.

  His mother pulled him away. “Come on, sit yourself down, and I’ll get you a warm drink… with honey.”

  Jack nodded his head and released the death grip he had on his father.

  After calming down, he and his parents sat around the kitchen table drinking honey tea while discussing the future.

  “…it’s already arranged,” his father explained. “Jack will start working at the library eleven days from now. A week from Monday, you’ll be the Royal Library’s newest scribe.”

  Jack nodded. I’ll be working with my dad again… as a scribe. He smiled for a moment, forgetting about the problem that was Baron Greaves.

  His dad continued, “As a new Novice Scribe, he’ll have to start at the bottom of course…” He smiled. “It won’t take long for him to prove his worth and move up.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dad,” Jack smiled as his father pulled something from his pocket. I remember this moment. He almost started crying again from how happy he felt.

  “A small gift for a talented young scribe.” His father slid the small, intricately carved wooden box over to his son. “It was created by the same artisan who made mine.” He patted his chest where he always stored a similar box in a customised pocket in his suit jacket.

  Jack touched the small wooden box. This small rectangle of wood was the only thing that survived the fire that consumed his family and home. He ran his fingers across the carved quote that decorated the outside of the varnished case. He knew the quote by heart; he’d read it thousands of times. It was all he had left to remember his loving family.

  Knowing I loved the written word, he furnished me from his own library with scrolls that I prize above my very breath.

  It was a well-known quote, amongst scribes, from a famous playwright, where a destitute scribe had saved a duke’s only child from a runaway horse. When offered a reward, the scribe asked for scrolls rather than gold. He was gifted the duke’s most precious scrolls from the lord’s library.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Jack opened the wooden case to reveal a high-quality scribe’s pen. He picked up the silver pen and felt its weight. He’d used this very pen for almost twenty-five years. It was the only pen he’d used after the fire had taken everything from him. “I love it, Dad.” He held back a tear so as not to ruin the moment. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  His dad smiled, and his mother clapped.

  That evening, Jack spent a relaxing evening with his family while forgetting about his worries.

  ***

  Jack lay on the hard wooden boards of his bed while trying to get to sleep. It didn’t help that there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that if he went to sleep, he would wake up in Tartarus.

  “This is so annoying,” he moaned while rolling over, seeking comfort. Mom should have given me Polly’s mattress.

  The mattress was leaning against a wall, lethargically drying.

  “Stupid sister,” he muttered as he willed the mattress to dry faster. “I’m going to find more spider egg sacs this time.” He smiled at his cunning plan for revenge.

  While he lay there unable to sleep, he planned out the following day. Officially, he’d tell his mom he was going into the city to buy scribe supplies. Unofficially, he’d be visiting various spell scroll shops to see if he could sell the four spell scrolls he’d created.

  I need a disguise, or better yet, a cloak and mask. Although the city was the largest in the Kingdom, he didn’t want to take the risk of a merchant recognising him or assuming he’d stolen the spell scrolls. A disguise would partially solve the issue.

  Could I convince a merchant I was an elf? Elves aged so slowly that it wasn’t unusual for a fifty-plus-year-old elf to look like a human teenager. Hmm… I don’t think I’m pretty enough to be an elf. Perhaps I could pass as a half-elf. That’d be easier to pull off. I’d just need some fake pointy ears, he chuckled at the thought, and perhaps a silver wig. If I had my cloak, the disguise would be so much easier.

  It wasn’t unusual to see adventurers in masks and hooded cloaks wandering the city. It made for quite a contrast when the streets were filled with a mixture of adventurers wearing armour and robes, and the white and blue-collar workers wearing suits or conservative dresses.

  No one in his family wore a cloak, and he had no coin to buy one. He considered making one. His sister, Polly, had tailoring supplies.

  I could borrow some material and create a basic hooded cloak. Not having a better idea, he focused on sleep. After another hour of tossing and turning while trying not to think about Tartarus, he fell asleep.